


Not quite like sixth year

by PercivalWulfricBrian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Frottage, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Oblivious Harry Potter, Sassy Draco Malfoy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13181085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercivalWulfricBrian/pseuds/PercivalWulfricBrian
Summary: « Watch where you’re going Potter ! Did Voldemort hit you so hard in the head with that second killing curse that your eyesight is actually worse than before ? »





	Not quite like sixth year

« Watch where you’re going Potter ! Did Voldemort hit you so hard in the head with that second killing curse that your eyesight is  _actually_  worse than before ? » Harry groaned, rubbing at his aching forehead from where he lay sprawled on the floor. The warm mass he had collided with was currently rising to its feet with a grace that could only be qualified as unfair — _how did anyone manage to look so put together after falling to the ground in a tangle of limbs with their school rival ?_ — and drawling in a gratingly familiar posh accent, right next to his ear.

If one person in all of Hogwarts had been left unchanged by the war, in both a maddening and an almost reassuring way, it was undeniably Draco Malfoy. Ten months spent sharing a house with a slit-nostrilled snake maniac had apparently done nothing to trigger a life change on his part, and he had remained the same infuriating, pointy-faced, pale-limbed git who stood on a rickety stool at Madam Malkin’s seven years ago like he owned the place. One would think that seven years ought to change a man, humble him a little, but if one thing could be said about Malfoy, it was that he was a man of habit. He still made Harry’s blood boil every time he opened his sneering mouth. He still strode through the half-crumbled halls of Hogwarts like he was meant to be there, like the show only began when he made his appearance. He still wore his tie a little loose, turned the corners of his lips down when he thought of something witty to say, took three sugars in his tea every morning — _three sugars ?! What kind of monster ruined tea with three sugars ?!_

Harry knew that at this point in his internal monologue, if he had been performing it aloud like a shakespearian protagonist — or like he often did at breakfast in the Great Hall, when he made the mistake of (entirely accidentally) glancing up to witness Malfoy’s inhuman morning habits ; at this point, Hermione would be chastising him for acting like an “even worse stalker than sixth year” and being “far too invested" in what she and Ron liked to call _“Dracowatching”_. She would also frown on his dismissal of Malfoy as unchanged. And yes, admittedly, the pale git had altered a few things about himself since they all returned to Hogwarts for eighth year. It seemed that perhaps, blood purity and Death Eater schemes were no longer among his priorities. He seemed to have apologised to a few people, including Hermione, with whom he had even ended up on friendly terms (study buddies, or “fellow library enthusiasts”, as she liked to put it). Malfoy definitely wore the truth of his actions during the war on his sleeve — or rather, on his arm — and yet succeeded in making them feel like the distant past. His appearance had changed, too. His hair floated down around his face now, no longer slicked back. His face, despite the dark circles under his eyes, was more relaxed. He generally insulted people less, and smiled at them more… except when it came to Harry. _Harry_ only got sneers. And smirks. And, of course, the constant quips about everything under the moon, from his appearance to the way he walked. For some reason, Malfoy seemed to have chosen him as the exception to his decent behaviour. His attitude towards him, if anything, was more openly spiteful — though, perhaps, in a lighter way than before. It was as if Harry was the one person he considered unworthy of his friendship, the one person who deserved only taunts — to the point that Hermione had begun to write down some of her favorite ones and rate them on a scale of one to five stars. They were regular, expected, and yet every time, without fail, they caused Harry to stammer furiously and fall short of any kind of eloquent retort.

« Hey Potter ! », he would sneer, « Was it living in the woods for a year that made your hair permanently ressemble a birds nest ? Did you _actually_ let birds nest there ? Was that the secret of your power all along ? Oh wait, no… Your hair has _always_ looked like this. »

« Potter, is that your idea of what pants are supposed ressemble ? Cause if it is, I can only recommend you run up to the seventh floor and require some swag. »

« Are you actually trying to become a dementor yourself, Potter ? Because it’s working, my will to live is fading just from seeing you walk around this stooped. »

And so on, from the moment Harry stumbled sleepily into the eighth year common room in the morning till the moment he exited the shared bathroom and fell into bed in the evening. Apparently, everything about Harry, from his yawns and stretching to the sight of him in just pyjama bottoms, was offensive to Malfoy. Not that he cared what Malfoy thought. It was just… exhausting, never getting even a friendly nod. And sort of unfair — for Merlin’s sake, even Ron had chats with Malfoy from time to time ! But when he complained about this to Hermione, she simply rolled her eyes and handed him books with absurd titles like « 101 Ways To Get Over Yourself » or « A Guide To Civil Interaction ».

Right now, unsurprisingly, Malfoy had launched himself into another entirely unnecessary rant about Harry’s motor coordination, or lack thereof, as if it was _his_ fault that he had not expected the blond wanker to storm around the corner just as he was examining spell-damage cracks in the marble floor. « Is Survivor’s Guilt blinding you to absolutely everything good in the world », Malfoy drawled, « _including_ the architectural perfection of this corridor, that’s actually wide enough to, _theoretically_ , enable two people to pass each other without so much as a brush of the robes ? ». Harry just looked at him, attempting calm breaths through his nose. The git was looking dishevelled in a way he never would have allowed in sixth year, with his impossibly silver hair all windswept — probably from Quidditch — and his robes open at the neck, revealing a sharp looking collarbone and a little more skin than Harry was comfortable with. He wondered if Malfoy was wearing a shirt under his robes, or if the bare skin just stretched on and on, pink nipples and all. He felt his face heat, wondering why the hell he was thinking about Malfoy’s nipples, of all horrors. This did not go unnoticed, which was just his luck. « Blushing, are we, Potter ? What obscene things have you been getting up to this time ? Is the She-Weasel hiding naked in that broom-closet or something ? ». Malfoy, the git, actually began to look around, making a big show of wrinkling his nose. It was a very sharp nose, all bony, yet somehow curved upwards a little at the end. For an absurd moment, Harry felt like flicking it. « Not the wittiest rhetorician, are you. You know, it almost makes me sad, thinking of you lurking alone in gloomy corridors... It’s almost as if your fame has got you so stuck-up, you’ve lost all interest in speaking to ordinary people.». Why was it that, when it came to Malfoy, both his patience and any of his potential sassy retorts abandoned ship in a matter of seconds ?

Harry looked at him, his stupid poncy mouth, his single crooked eyebrow, his infuriating collarbone, and something inside him snapped. « Why don’t you shut the fuck up Malfoy ! », he growled, the roughness of his own voice surprising him. For a moment, Malfoy looked taken aback too, but then he smirked, leaned in far too close and murmured : « Why don’t you make me ». Harry slammed him to the wall, both hands fisting in the fabric of the other boy’s shirt — and yes, he did apparently have a shirt on, a translucent white button-down that barely peeked out from beneath his robes. « You know, Potter », he said, a little breathlessly, « people might get the wrong idea if they see us all alone up here. They might begin to think you have a _thing_ for pushing innocent blondes up against school walls…». Harry blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of their close proximity. He could feel Malfoy’s ragged breath ghosting over his lips, and everything from his impossibly sharp cheekbones to the paleness of his lashes was now inches from Harry’s face. He reached up a shaking hand in an attempt to push away from the wall they were crowded against, but somehow his fingers got all twisted in Malfoy’s hair, which was even softer than he would have imagined — not that he had. They stared at each other, frozen, Malfoy’s infuriating smirk beginning to slip away, and then they were kissing, lips sliding together in a slick, wet, frenzy, hands grappling furiously between them. Harry’s head had gone entirely blank the moment Malfoy’s tongue met his, and he could only moan helplessly as the other boy began to attack his throat. His body throbbed with fiery want as he felt long fingers grip at his butt, pulling him closer. Someone was shouting vaguely in the distance, something about how if that was Potter and Malfoy fighting again this just might be the birthdate of an eternal detention sentence, but Harry didn’t care about anything other than the lanky body writhing against his. He fumbled with Malfoy’s shirt, wrenching it open to find a perfect, pink nipple, obscenely dark in contrast with the rest of his skin. He squeezed it between his fingers, eliciting a delicious whimper that made his head spin with desire, and then their hips met and he was hard, desperately, impossibly hard, arching wildly against Malfoy’s length — until a loud gasp from the other end of the corridor made them spring apart.

Professor McGonagall was staring at them, eyes comically wide and mouth stretched in a white line thinner than he had ever seen it. Harry cringed as he took in the scene, the Headmistress a mere dozen steps away, him, flushed and panting, and Malfoy, leaning against the wall with his shirt hanging open in a way that did nothing to help the hardness in his pants. « Of course this would happen. », she finally said, turning swiftly on the spot and stumbling down the corridor, muttering faintly all the way about how _this was it_ , they were finally going to be the death of her, actually they must have already been the death of her, and she was now a very exasperated ghost… The silence stretched out, until it was impossible for them to avoid looking at each other. « I — er — », began Harry, just as Malfoy hurriedly exclaimed something that sounded vaguely like « betterbegoinglateforpotions ». « Right ! Potions ! You better… late ! », he replied, eloquently, trying not to stare at Malfoy as he buttoned back his shirt and bent to grab the bag he’d dropped. Unsure what to do, Harry awkwardly backed away a few paces, then turned away, forcing himself not to glance back. « Potter ? », a voice suddenly drawled, causing him to spin around so fast he nearly tripped on his own feet. Malfoy was gazing at him, cheeks slightly flushed and hair adorably rumpled ; « I’ll see you round ». Harry managed a nod before rushing off, his face flaming.

It was only a while later, a few steps from the common room, that it came to his mind that for the first time, as he looked at him, Malfoy’s lips had been curved into a smile.


End file.
